


The Nickname

by ferretsoda



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Inquisitor Being an Asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-27 06:40:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10803837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferretsoda/pseuds/ferretsoda
Summary: Varric had this thing about nicknames. Everyone in the group had one: Dorian was "Sparkler", Bull was "Tiny", and so on and so on.The only one who didn't was the Inquisitor.That wouldn't do.





	The Nickname

 

Varric had this thing about nicknames. They were useful for all sorts of things: alleviating tense situations, making someone feel like they were part of the team, and more importantly, knocking them down a few pegs.

 

Which brought him to the Inquisitor.

 

He didn't _despise_ her or anything; in fact, quite the opposite. It took guts for an elf to rise up and lead the Inquisition to where it was today. But that was where the admiration ended and the annoyance began. An annoyance that had grown, building up over time, then been buried underneath layers of wry observation, jokes, and begrudging compliance.

 

He stared down at the piece of parchment he had been scribbling on, quill in his hand. He couldn't believe how much she had changed, how they had all changed. When he first met her, it seemed like an entire life ago. He remembered thinking the way her eyes (the color was hard to put into words-- like crystal grace, but bluer?) seemed inquisitive and bright. She had been a bit reserved around Cassandra and Solas, leading him to believe she was quite mature.

 

He couldn't have been more wrong.

 

Not five minutes after they set off for the mountain pass through the Frostbacks, Varric heard a strange noise behind him, somewhere between a gulp and a yell. They had turned around, weapons drawn, only to be met with an amusing sight.

Lavellan must have made a wrong step somewhere, because she was now down in a snowbank, up to her pelvis in the stuff. She had tried to push herself up and out of it, but the softness gave way, causing her to become basically a wriggling, angry head. Cassandra gave her an exasperated look, and then ordered Solas and himself to go help her. They all stood and stared at her for a few moments, trying to figure out how to get her out.

" _Ohhh_ , don't everybody rush all at once!" she called out, head flopping to one side in irritation. The group had been taken aback; were elves always this sarcastic?

 

Varric's shoulders shook as the laughter seeped out of him. The expression on Solas' face was absolutely priceless, and his attempt to explain that not _all_ Dalish were like that even more so. He must have been reminiscing too vividly, though, because a gloved hand suddenly slapped down on the parchment, snatching him back to reality. Looking down at him was the rather angry face of the Inquisitor, decked out in her black "judgement" uniform. Black was not a good color to wear when peoples' fates were in your hands.

"Something I can do for you, Your Inquisitorialness?" Varric asked, casually scratching his chin.

"We're setting off for Emprise du Lion tomorrow-"

"-as you've been telling me all week-"

"-so I want to make cert-" The Inquisitor stopped and glared down at him. She didn't like being interrupted. She took a deep breath and continued, "So I want to make certain that _you_ , Varric Tethras, have all your **shit** together-" She flashed her teeth as she emphasized the curse. "-because it seems like every time we set off somewhere, we all have to turn around because you forgot, I don't know..." The elf waved a hand in the air, grasping for an example. "... the latest edition of _Bumble, the Wonder Nug_ or whatever." The dwarf raised a brow at her mockingly, before throwing up his hands and acquiescing. He promised to have everything sorted out before tomorrow. As the Inquisitor turned to leave, though, he asked her how the judgement went.

"On who... oh, the Knight-Commander guy?" Varric facepalmed internally.

"No, on Terry the blacksmith from Kirkwall," he deadpanned.

Lavellan either chose to ignore or didn't get the joke, and instead folded her arms proudly. "I passed judgement on him, swiftly, mercifully, as the Inquisitor would."

"Yeah, but what exactly happened-"

" _But what exactly happened?_ " the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste, mocked in a dopey, slurred tone, eyes crossed. What was she, four years old? The blonde dwarf's stunned expression quickly soured as he felt a little flame of hate flicker into life in his gut. "Y'know, Tethras, if you ever bothered showing up to these things, instead of sitting in a corner writing garbage romance novels, I might have a little more respect for you! Shit, you might even learn a thing or two!"

That did it. He'd had it up to here with her. She'd barged in, ruined his otherwise pleasant evening of writing, and insulted him nonstop.

"He's going to be the Templars' chew toy for a while, 'til they can figure out what to do with his sorry ass. Seriously, how do guys like him get conscripted? Are they _that_ desperate for morons in fancy armor with superiority complexes?"

That cocky grin really deserved to be wiped off this time. Varric stood up, pushing his chair back, and looked her straight in the eye.

"Why, thinking of a career change?"

 

The resulting door slam was the subject of most conversation the next morning. Some soldiers were convinced Skyhold was haunted, " 'cause doors were never that loud back at Haven!" The castle grounds slowly buzzed into life as torches were lit, horses were saddled, and wagons loaded. Breakfast was a bit rushed due to the Inquisitor requesting-- no, _demanding_  that they leave before sunrise. Varric swiped a roll off an unattended platter, taking a bite out of it as he navigated through the sea of people and wagons. As he rushed down the stairs into the main courtyard, he spotted his fellow party members.

Dorian was perched on a pile of expensive rugs, grooming his mustache. How did he manage look so perfect this early in the day? Sun wasn't even up. As if on cue, the well-groomed man turned to him.

"The Inquisitor certainly knows how to travel in style, doesn't she?" he remarked.

"You're telling me, Sparkler. By the time we get there, all the caviar's going to spoil." This earned him a genuine laugh from the mage, which caused the slumbering form next to him to stir. Closer inspection revealed it to be their resident Gray Warden. Blackwall wasn't used to early wake up calls, judging by the way he sat back down and leaned on his sword for support.

"Are you going to be okay, there, Hero?" Varric tried to ask, but couldn't help snickering instead. The way the man's beard hung over his sword's hilt reminded him of a worn-out hunting dog.

The sudden blast of a warhorn made all three of them jump. All eyes were on the main gate, where the Inquisitor stood surrounded by soldiers on horseback. She mounted her own steed (which matched her dark armor, what was it with her and black?), and cast a sweeping gaze over her troops. As she gave the call to ride out, her eyes briefly locked with Varric's. He couldn't help but think what a great portrait the scene would make: the Inquisitor in black armor on her faithful mount, haloed by scruffy white hair, long red banners rippling behind her like giant serpents. The thought was dashed, though, when he saw the briefest glint of smugness, as if to say, "Who cares what you call me? I'm still the Inquisitor, _bitch_."

 

Varric could never get used to the size of these expeditions. He'd been on enough of them, however, to know that the whole "Inquisitor among the troops" thing was just a morale booster. As soon as they were out of sight of Skyhold, she'd usually ditch her horse and nap in the back of a covered wagon. Some Inquisitor. But hey, it must have impressed someone because their coffers were getting to be pretty full nowadays.

What he couldn't understand, though, was why she even wanted him to accompany her in the first place, since it seemed pretty obvious she hated him. They'd had their fair share of spats before, sure, but it wasn't until after a particularly heated argument that he discovered something.

He'd asked Iron Bull over an ale if she was ever like this with him. The Qunari just shook his head, stunned.

"Usually, she'd just pop her head in and check to make sure we were all fed and watered, then she'd disappear like a puff of smoke. _Poof_." He flicked his fingers upwards to emphasize this.

Varric stared at him for a beat, blinked, then turned back to his drink, sipping pensively.

 

A sudden, sharp, and cold sensation knocked him in the back of the head.

"HEY!" he yelped, throwing a hand up to grasp the spot. He pulled it back to inspect it, making sure there was no blood. As he turned around to glare at the perpetrator, though, all he saw were Dorian, Blackwall, and a few scouts staring back at him.

"Something wrong?" Blackwall asked, walking a little faster to catch up to him. Varric glared down at his hand, growling, "Someone's idea of a joke." The taller man just gave him a reassuring smile and clapped a hand on his shoulder before passing him. Dorian offered to "be [his] bodyguard should the ruffian strike again", which finally made the dwarf crack a smile. "Suits me, Sparkler!"

The two men continued their trek in pleasant conversation, until the caravan had halted for a mid-morning break. Dorian went off to fetch them something warm to drink, while Varric leaned against a wagon wheel to give his legs a rest. He stretched his arms out over him, giving a grunt when he heard his back pop. He hadn't even been allowed the luxury of that since being woken by an anxious servant. Maker, it was like the Inquisitor _haunted_ everyone. In his mind's eye, he could see her at the heart of the expedition now: mapping out their route with important people, sending and receiving messengers, and other inquisitorial matters. She practically lived in the limelight.

 

The only times he'd really see her shape up was on the battlefield. She'd shed the title "Inquisitor" and charge headlong into danger. Sometimes into other teammates, too.

It had been their first dragon. The Fereldan Frostback. Maker, how they fought. Between the dragonlings and the high dragon herself, they should have been dead within the first few minutes. But Lavellan just kept barking orders at them 'til her voice was hoarse. And somehow it had actually worked. They managed to cripple the beast's left leg. In the final minutes of the fight, when there was everything to play for, the elf called out the strategy from across the battlefield. They would play round-robin with the dragon's attention.

Just as Varric broke stealth and was about to start firing, however, the Inquisitor came barreling into him from the side. They crashed into a shallow, rocky pool, tussling and splashing. She had pressed a hand onto his exposed chest to give herself some leverage, giving him such a look it could have flayed the dragon alive.

"THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!" she bellowed at him. The dwarf gave her an incredulous stare, before looking down at her hand. She jerked it away as though she had suddenly touched rotting flesh. The two of them scrambled to their feet and immediately began arguing right there, on the battlefield.

"YOU _WANT_ ME TO BE SEEN BEFORE I PULL THE TRIGGER?"

"OH PISS OFF, YOU'RE LIKE A FOOT TALL-"

"YEAH AND YOU'RE A FUCKING DRUFFALO!"

Only the bone-rattling roar of the high dragon could have interrupted them, jarring from their argument, and sending them back into the fight. Dorian and Blackwall were glad for it, too. It wasn't exactly fun playing "tag" with a hundred-foot nightmare that could breathe fire. Lavellan and Tethras exchanged one last glare, before focusing all of their hate for each other onto the dragon.

She never stood a chance.

 

Varric's shoulders trembled again as he bit his lip, trying to stifle his laughs. Seeing everyone's faces back in Skyhold when they returned battered (and slightly charred) was worth it. Cullen and Cassandra had followed after the Inquisitor like a pair of puppies. Bull had grabbed him by the shoulders and demanded to know every single detail, but the dwarf just laughed and said he could read about it in his next book. Which reminded him, about that nickname...

 

A sudden, sharp, and _very_ cold sensation hit him. This time square in the face. His surprised yell quickly grew into a guttural snarl of realization as he tried to wipe the snow out of his eyes.

"Alright, that's **it** , who-"

"Inquisitor!" a soldier's voice yelled in delight.

Varric froze momentarily, before resuming even faster. Sure enough, there was the Inquisitor standing on the opposite side of the mountain path, snowball in hand, grinning. Anyone else would have called the expression she wore mischievous, hell maybe even "playful". Varric knew damn well better. He glowered at her, a small crowd now gathering.

"What's your problem?!" he snapped. She didn't reply, though. Instead, she turned back at a quarter angle, spinning on her heel-- the same technique she used when throwing a knockout bomb.

 

Now, to her credit, when her heel slipped and she fell off the cliff, she had actually managed to _run_ down the mountainside. Well. At least for a little bit. Varric barked out a laugh, before he joined everyone else who had rushed to the edge to watch the spectacle unfold. Her new audience began whooping and cheering at her, but the storyteller's laughter seemed louder than the rest, nipping at her speedy heels. As the chortling began dying down, Varric stepped forward.

"You're doin' good, Twi- Tw-" He had to pause to laugh. "Twinkletoes!" The crowd's laughter came back twice as loud, eventually infecting everyone in the entire expedition. When she faceplanted into the snow and started rolling and tumbling, Varric was on his knees, crying with laughter. Ugh, if he kept laughing he might end up actually breaking a rib. Fortunately, he recovered enough to witness the Inquisitor reach the finish line: a freezing river. By now, everyone was clapping and cheering, before a number of soldiers and attendants began descending into the valley to help her. Varric was holding onto Blackwall's arm for support, trying to breathe. The Grey Warden tried to convey through his laughter that he had to go help her, and pointed weakly to the river. Varric gave him an equally giggly goodbye, even throwing in a little wave.

As Dorian came towards him, wiping his eyes, the dwarf watched with baited breath; the Altus always had good one-liners for moments like this.

"Th-the Inquisitor certainly knows how to travel in style, doesn't she?" he managed to choke out. Varric threw his head back in laughter, and the two men fell about the place.

 

When they had collected themselves, the pair eventually sidled back to the edge of the path in time to see the Inquisitor's drenched form staggering out of the river. Soldiers came rushing towards her, blankets in arms.

"What did you call her? 'Twinkletoes'?" Dorian asked amusedly.

"I thought it fit pretty well, given the circumstances," Varric replied, eyes twinkling. The image of the Inquisitor flying down the mountain would forever be burned into his memory-- it was just too good to forget.

"Well enough for a nickname, do you think?"

The dwarf slowly turned to face him, a wave of realization washing over him and leaving him with a massive grin.

"Absolutely."

**Author's Note:**

> My first fanfic, lol  
> First draft got eaten by the site so I had to re-type it all from memory. Fun, ain't it?


End file.
